Killer Listing

by Vicki Doudera

  “I met Sassa Jorgensen at the memorial. She was with Kyle Cameron on Monday.”

  “Right. She’s the massage therapist. Quite possibly the last one to see her alive—that is, before the killer.”

  “She’s convinced that Kyle was pregnant. Did any of the blood tests indicate she could be?”

  Jonas Briggs was silent. “Hang on, let me get the file.” The phone thumped down and Darby heard the sounds of a busy office—phones ringing, the muted murmurs of voices—and felt sweat begin trickling down her back. Was it the heat, or anxiety over new developments in the case?

  The receiver was back at Jonas Briggs’ ear. “Got it.” Darby heard the rustle of paper and his exasperated sigh. “Nothing. It doesn’t appear we did a pregnancy serum test, but you can bet I’ll have the lab run one now.”

  “If she was pregnant, is it too late to determine paternity?”

  “We’d need a blood sample from the father. In the meantime, I’ll ask the lab to hold a sample of Kyle’s blood and—if they find it—amniotic fluid.” He whistled under his breath. “The autopsy is scheduled for tomorrow. If Kyle Cameron was pregnant when she died, we may be dealing with more than we thought.”

  Darby pondered the implication of his words as she let herself back into Helen’s cool home. Kyle may have been pregnant. It made sense, really, when she considered the lifestyle changes the driven agent had begun to set in motion. She’d broken off whatever romantic relationship she’d had with Foster McFarlin. Ditched Barnaby’s for a calmer, quieter agency and schedule. She’d been about to embark on a new life …

  Darby sighed and pulled out her booklet of Florida real estate laws and regulations. Opening it up, she forced herself to stop thinking about Kyle Cameron. The following day she needed to take and pass an exam. Right now, she had to study.

  _____

  Thanks to Mindy Jackson, it was widely reported that Chellie Howe attended Kyle Cameron’s memorial service because they were old college friends—sorority sisters, no less—not because Kyle’s father-in-law, John Cameron, was one of Chellie’s largest donors. By the end of the day, the story was spun even farther, with the late night news showing a sorrowful Lieutenant Governor Howe explaining that the murderer had taken “not only one of Sarasota’s finest realtors, but also one of my best friends.” Chellie had been careful to extol the virtues of the serial killer’s other two victims—one was a newly licensed agent with a two-year-old—and promised to work for a stiff sentence, a pledge that meshed neatly with her conservative, tough-on-crime platform.

  Foster McFarlin did not attend the service, although a huge flower arrangement sent by McFarlin Enterprises adorned the table holding the condolence book. Chellie had noted the size and choice of flowers: Casablanca lilies, orchids, and roses. The bastard had spared no expense, but at least he’d had the good taste to stay away from Casa Cameron.

  Chellie had spoken only briefly with Alexandra Cameron, offering quick words of sympathy before Alexandra had moved on to the next mourner. And yet Chellie had felt those gray eyes linger a little too long, as if she had more to say about her sister-in-law’s death …

  Chellie sighed and leaned back in the upholstered seat of one of Florida’s state planes. Although she often made the 286-mile trip from Sarasota to Tallahassee in a chauffeured limousine, tonight she was glad Mindy had arranged for the plane. She was exhausted, her eyes too heavy to read the briefings for her morning meeting. She let her eyelids close for just a few moments.

  She was back at Florida State, cramming for a Poli Sci exam, knowing that a good grade in the course was essential for her hopes at law school. She checked her watch. Dammit! She was late! Quickly she began gathering up her notebooks and papers. A sudden gust of wind sent them flying around the dorm room, and frantically she tried to scoop them up. Suddenly she sensed someone standing in the doorway. “Shut the door,” she yelled over the wind, which had now become tornado-like. Frantic to get across campus for at least part of the exam, she sprang to her feet and ran. But Kyle Cameron was blocking the exit, her head thrown back in laughter, knowing full well she was dooming Chellie’s chances at success …

  She woke with a start. A typical anxiety dream, brought on by the day’s events, but nevertheless her heart was racing, her breathing fast and shallow. Chellie inhaled deeply, then opened the shade of her window and peered into the darkness. What was it Alexandra had called Kyle when they lunched? Poison? None of it matters now, she thought, watching as the lights of Tallahassee twinkled below. I’m the second most powerful person in the state, soon to be governor, and she’s dead and gone. My problems are over, and so are Alexandra’s. Who’s laughing now?

  She gathered up her papers and stowed them in her briefcase. The pilot was beginning his approach to the airport, where a limo would be waiting to whisk Chellie to her condo. And Kyle Cameron? She was history.

  On Thursday morning, Jack Cameron arrived at the dock at eight forty-five a.m. He unloaded his diving equipment and put it aboard Seeker, Tank Webber’s dive boat. The vessel was empty—Tank was no doubt across the street grabbing donuts and coffee. Jack looked around at the assembled gear: tanks, flippers, wetsuits, weight belts, and buoyancy compensators, and felt the familiar excitement diving always engendered. The mystery of the unknown, the vastness of the ocean floor, and the ability to survive underwater, thanks to Jacques Cousteau’s incredible invention. He had loved diving ever since he’d first tried it at eleven years old. It was a world of peace, beauty, and yes, danger. A world where you could experience life as well as lose it.

  He sat down on one of Seeker’s gunwales and waited for Tank. He was early, but that had been a conscious decision, one of the first he’d made in days. The pills were history. They didn’t really help and besides, he needed to be firing on all cylinders to carry out his plan.

  “Hey, Cam.” Tank Webber, tall and sunburned, swung his long legs over the side of Seeker and came aboard. He handed him a coffee and the bag of donuts. “Two jellies. Help yourself.”

  Jack reached in the bag and found the jelly donuts. He took the plastic cap off the coffee, inhaled the bitter aroma, and took a few gulps. Cream and two sugars, just the way he liked it. He managed a small grin.

  “You’re the best.”

  Tank shrugged. “Hey, it’s the least I can do after …”

  They both knew what the “after” meant, and Jack felt an intense stab of grief knife him hard, right between the ribs. He tried not to wince.

  “Yeah.” He looked out over the water and changed the subject away from Kyle’s death. “Pretty smooth today. How many we got diving?”

  “Four. A couple from the hotel and two guys who came last week.”

  “Business good?”

  “Fair. I need to do some more advertising, make calls to the hotels. There aren’t as many tourists, what with this stupid ‘staycation’ stuff.”

  “Staycation?”

  “You stay home and have your vacation where you live instead of visiting sunny Florida.” Tank snorted. “Tell me, what kind of a vacation is that?”

  A car arrived and a couple emerged carrying dive bags.

  “That’s a good sign,” Tank commented. “They own some equipment.” He gave a cheerful wave. “Good morning. You the Jensens?”

  They nodded, approaching the boat. Tank introduced Jack and asked the couple what equipment they’d require. A few minutes later, a shiny red pickup truck drove up and two men in their late twenties or early thirties joined the group.

  Tank’s customers began slipping on wetsuits and donning equipment while Tank readied the boat for departure. Jack hopped on the dock and untied the lines, waiting for Tank’s signal to push away. He gave the bow a shove and jumped nimbly onto the stern, then coiled the lines, removed the fenders, and stowed them.

  Tank flashed him a look that said “thanks” and Jack nodded. He sipped his coffee, remembering the morning three years earlier when he and the tall diver had met. It was on the wreck of the Hy
dro Atlantic, a 320-foot freighter lying in 172 feet of water off the Boca Raton inlet. Both men had been captivated by the experience, and had become more and more drawn to the world of wreck diving.

  Jack closed his eyes and saw the familiar images he’d encountered on dozens of dives. The ghostly bulk of a ship, encrusted in coral and seaweed, lying on the ocean floor; the fish, large and small, meandering through the portholes and emerging through passageways; the dark rooms, each with a history, now silent and waiting. He opened his eyes and looked out at the sea. Tank’s passengers were chattering among themselves, but Jack barely heard them. His thoughts were on the dive ahead, his last dive, the one that would finally bring him peace.

  _____

  “Any news?” Darby had finished her morning run and was standing in the shade of one of Helen’s enormous palm trees, her cell phone in hand, talking to Jonas Briggs.

  He made a noise like he was blowing air out from his mouth.

  “Yeah, in fact there is some news. Kyle was pregnant—about two months along. Just got the tests back from the lab.”

  “Does this mean you reopen the case?”

  She heard him sigh. “Not until I can show Shank’s not the killer. In the meantime, I’m working on it on my own time.” He sighed again. “The last thing Police Commissioner Conrad wants is a complication. He and Lieutenant Governor Howe are tripping over themselves to take credit for catching Cyril Shank. Reopening Kyle Cameron’s murder would be a major embarrassment.”

  “But if the murderer is still out there—“

  “He—or she—is still out there. Every cop instinct I’ve got tells me that.” He exhaled. “So here’s the deal. The department’s not going to look for more suspects, and I’ve been told not to spend any more time on it. I’m working on the parasailing death, but the Kondo Killer case is officially closed.” Darby heard a scraping sound, as if a chair was being pushed back from a crowded desk. “I know you’re heading back to California. If you were to stick around a bit …”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just that if you were here, you might help me track down some leads. That’s all.”

  Darby thought a moment. It was Thursday. She was meeting the interested buyer for St. Andrew’s Isle the following day. Hideki Kobayashi would undoubtedly need some time to put together an offer on the property, so if she was still in town …

  “I have to admit that I’m intrigued, Jonas. If Cyril Shank didn’t kill Kyle, her pregnancy could have had something to do with her death. Any chance we’ll find out who the father was?”

  “We have obtained fetal DNA. Once we have a suspect, we can check.” His voice became animated once more. “I gotta say, my money’s on Jack Cameron. He and Kyle weren’t seeing much of each other, but he still had the hots for her, and Kyle could be a softie. Behind door number two is the on-again-off-again lover, Foster McFarlin, conveniently married to our crusading, crime-fighting Lieutenant Governor. Was Kyle in the family way? Supposing she told Jack that she was having Foster’s baby, and he went majorly beserk?” He sighed again, this one a long, tired sound.

  “You sound exhausted. You getting any sleep?”

  “I’m fine, but I’d sure be a whole lot better if you said you’d devote some of those excellent brain cells to helping me with this.”

  Darby laughed. “I’m not sure why you think I’d be much help.”

  “I heard about what happened up in Maine. Word gets around, you know.”

  “I got lucky up there. I’m not some Nancy Drew who can ferret out the bad guys.”

  “Too bad!” Jonas Briggs laughed. “Look, some people have a knack for this work, no matter what their day job, and you, Darby, have got the knack. You’re a natural detective, and I sure could use your help.” He paused. “Buy you dinner tonight and we’ll toss some ideas around?”

  Darby looked back at the bungalow. Helen would be fine without her, would maybe even catch up on some badly needed rest. “Sure. Where and when?”

  “Leave the where to me. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  _____

  Helen Near smiled when told of Darby’s dinner plans. “Jonas Briggs, huh?” She grinned again. “Nice boy, good family …”

  “Helen, it’s not like that. It’s business.”

  “Business?”

  Darby bit her lip. “He wants to talk about real estate. You know how it is—everyone wants to talk about the market, their home’s value, that kind of thing.”

  Helen gave her a searching look before bursting into her booming laugh.

  “Right!” She gathered up their coffee cups and walked back into the kitchen. In a minute she was back on the patio, a broad smile on her face. “Speaking of business, I’m going to be picking up the listing papers for St. Andrew’s Isle later this morning. Your Mr. Kobayashi will want to get the jump on any other interested buyers.”

  Darby smiled. “As will his agent. Are you driving over there?”

  “Eleven a.m. Want to come?”

  “No. I’ll be there tomorrow to meet Hideki Kobayashi at the guest house, and I don’t want to muddy the waters.”

  “Gotcha.” Helen pulled a lemon from one of her trees and sniffed its bright yellow skin. “I’m heading over to the office. Peter Janssen’s coming by for a quick chat.”

  “Is this about the referral fee again?”

  Helen shrugged. “Probably. I’ll hear him out, but truthfully, I don’t think I owe the guy anything.”

  Darby straightened the patio furniture and looked up at Helen. “If you like, I’ll take a quick shower and meet you at the office.”

  “I’d love to have you there,” Helen admitted. “You ask those tough questions so well.”

  Darby laughed and gave the older woman’s shoulder a squeeze. “Thanks. I’ll be thinking up some tricky ones while I shower.”

  _____

  Crouched in the bushes, his Dolphins cap pulled low so as to shade his aviator sunglasses, Clyde Hensley listened to the water running in Helen Near’s shower. He’d seen the old lady leave only minutes before, so he knew it was the Asian girl alone in the house. He glanced around and saw nothing. Pretty quiet neighborhood, everybody’s shades drawn against the penetrating sun. He rose to his haunches and removed his hat. With a damp forearm he wiped the sweat from his bare scalp, his long hair now a thing of the past.

  Cap back in place, he crept silently to the bedroom where he knew the girl was staying. Gently he eased up the window sash. He took a tiny lens—no bigger than an M&M—and a small wad of putty. Carefully he stuck the putty on part of the window frame where he hoped it would not show, and then pushed the tiny lens inside. He didn’t worry about tripping a security system or arousing a large dog. He knew from observing the property that neither of these deterrents were present. The sticker at the front door, warning of an alarm system, was pure bullshit.

  Hensley retreated to his car and booted up the computer. He waited with anticipation while she finished her shower, his excitement growing with every minute. His eyes were glued to the laptop’s screen, where the image of the empty room waited like a promise.

  Finally a figure, wrapped in a towel, appeared at the bedroom doorway. He smacked his lips in anticipation. Let the show begin.

  She strode across the bedroom floor, the towel cinched around her torso, her long black hair damp against her neck. God, she was beautiful. The heck with the plump blonde girls. This one was special, exotic. Like an endangered puma, lithe and sleek.

  She bent and pulled something out of what looked like a suitcase and shook it out. Her clothes, he thought. She’s getting ready to get dressed …

  She seemed satisfied with whatever she had chosen from the suitcase and tossed it on the bed. She rummaged in the suitcase again and pulled up a small, lacy thing. He squinted at the screen and than remembered the zoom. Presto! A delicate pair of white lace panties came into clear focus.

  Holding them in her hand she reached with the other to locate a matching bra. Clyde g
roaned in pleasure. This was good, real good, and she hadn’t even taken off the towel! He snickered at how easy it was going to be to splice together some footage and make some dough. My kind of job, he thought. Lucrative, easy, and fun.

  He watched as she pivoted and took a step toward the door. “No,” he begged aloud. “Don’t go back to the bathroom!” Just then she froze, like an animal in the woods, and cocked her head. She turned slowly and stared toward the window.

  Clyde Hensley held his breath, wondering what she was doing. She certainly wasn’t undressing, that was for sure. She can’t possibly hear anything from me. Perhaps a phone’s ringing in another room?

  As he watched the laptop monitor, the girl’s image came closer, until her pointed face and quizzical eyes filled the screen. He jumped back in alarm. Christ! She was right in front of the camera! He felt the remains of a chili hotdog coming back up his throat as her hand closed over the lens …

  He scrambled to think what to do. She had found the lens, was probably wondering what it was, but he wasn’t in any imminent danger. Just annoyed as all hell. That little thing had cost him a pretty penny, and now it would be tossed in the trash. Not to mention that his internet porn footage would be a bust.

  Hensley closed the laptop and started up the car, an old Corolla he’d permanently borrowed from a conveniently dead Texan. “Shit!” He muttered, as the rusted vehicle sputtered down the street. He was shaking his head in disgust as he cruised by Helen Near’s house, totally oblivious to the toweled figure watching from the door.

  _____

  Kelly McGee tried not to blush as Jonas Briggs brushed by her on his way out the door. “What’s up?” called Dave DiNunzio, a new detective some of the officers called “Lucky” because he was such a loser at cards, despite the fact that he played in a weekly poker game.

  “Not sure. Could be a break in the parasailing case,” he answered, his face a mixture of focus and excitement. Kelly felt her face growing warm as she sensed some of his anticipation.

  “Need backup?” she stammered, desperately trying to appear nonchalant.